


The Monster Mash Affair

by diadema



Series: Small Cheer and Great Welcome [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Halloween, Pre-Relationship, Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-25 09:31:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12528296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/pseuds/diadema
Summary: When UNCLE decides to throw a party celebrating his least favorite holiday, Illya swears he will have nothing to do with it. Never again, he had decided... until he learns that a certain mechanic has been placed in charge of the festivities.His first Halloween was a tragicomic disaster. But for Gaby's sake, Illya vows to have a Good Time. He's just not going to be happy about it.





	1. The Room Where It Happens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya does what he swears he would never do again: celebrate Halloween.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided at the midnight hour to write a Halloween story. If all goes to plan, there'll be a new chapter every day until the 31st. The clock is ticking, so wish me luck, folks!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading—comments are always welcome. :)

This will not be his first Halloween, but he swears it’s going to be his last.

It takes just the _slightest_ mention of October 31st and Illya is hurtling into a maelstrom of shaking hands and red-rimmed fury, the memories pumping through his veins like the nightmare fuel they are.

He hates Halloween with every moral and physical fiber of his being and still it is not enough. It will never be enough.

Because Illya knows that, at the end of the day, he will _always_ care about the mechanic more.

This party is her pet project—the first holiday celebration for their fledgling agency—and the only thing she seems to talk about anymore. Not that Illya would know.

In between missions, the mechanic has become a near-permanent fixture in Waverly’s office. He hardly sees her anymore, has even resorted to going well out of his way to walk past.

With a plausible excuse, of course.

The scene is always the same: the German and the Brit huddled over their teacups, trading details like state secrets. They very well _could_ be given how closely they’re being guarded.

Illya himself has been turned away from their door more times than he would care to admit. Unfortunately, he’s not the only one keeping track.

“No admittance except on party business,” Solo had joked once, after witnessing a _particularly_ brusque dismissal from the mechanic. When Illya failed to grasp the reference, the American sighed deeply and muttered something dangerously similar to “Christmas list” beneath his breath.

Illya’s fists clenched involuntarily. He forced himself to breathe… one crisis at a time. There were still a few weeks before he’d have to worry about _that_.

When Waverly approached him soon after to discuss the party, the Russian had raged and fumed and swore up and down that he would have _no part_ in any of it. His superior simply smiled: polite, knowing, infuriatingly triumphant.

All it had taken were the magic words “Miss Teller” and Illya knew he’d lost the fight.

 

* * *

 

“Am I being punished, sir?”

A thousand worst-case scenarios parade through his mind—a reprimand, a reassignment, a return to the KGB. The dread floods through him, though he should know by now that he is dealing with a different class of mastermind.

 _Never underestimate your opponent_ , he’d been taught. If the Brit is going to mete out justice, Illya knows that he will do so in a subtler and _infinitely_ more destructive way.

“Punished?” Waverly repeats. His brows furrow. “My God, Kuryakin, it’s a _party_. No one’s forcing you to go.”

It gives him pause, but not reassurance. Illya senses a trap—a clever one—has been laid for him, but he doesn’t know _what_. He narrows his eyes. “They’re not?”

“I can’t exactly order you to attend, can I?”

Again, the statement should put him at ease, but it only raises his guard higher. He has a premonition of foreboding, of a nose tightening by minute degrees.

Waverly sighs. “But I thought you might like to know that Miss _Teller_ has already agreed to be in charge. She’s running the show. Now, it’s a tall order for any one person to take on, so it might be—”

“Ask Solo.”

The Englishman waves him off impatiently. “He’s already pledged his full support. But the thing is, Kuryakin, Gaby specifically requested _you_. Insisted on it even.”

The statement catches Illya off-guard, giving Waverly just enough time to drive the final nail in the coffin.

“Believe it or not, Miss Teller _does_ put considerable stock in your opinions. She trusts your judgment and _I_ trust hers.”

He arches a brow at the Russian. “If she says that _you_ are the key to this party’s success, then I will not stand in her way. Which thus begs the question… will you?”

“Gaby said that?”

“In not so many words, but yes. This whole party means more to her than I think perhaps you realize. At least _try_ to have a good time.” A sly smile and a deliberate shade of significance. “For Miss Teller’s sake, of course.”

Illya nods and walks stiffly out of the room. His head and heart are warring fiercely within himself—a token battle. He already knows the outcome.

_What did I ever do to deserve this?_

His heart seizes when he hears her laugh. He chases the sound. Gaby sits atop her desk, guarding a bowl of candy from the American thief beside her. She swats his hand away and looks up... just in time to catch Illya’s stare.

She smiles.

In that moment, the Russian vows two things: he’s going to have a Good Time. But he’s _not_ going to be happy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "No admittance except on party business" is a quote from the Lord of the Rings (first published in 1954). I have a headcanon that Solo is a huge Tolkien nerd. :)


	2. Farmer Refuted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya visits a pumpkin patch, learns a secret of Gaby's, and gets advice from Solo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles are all going to come from Hamilton songs. Don't know how it ended up that way, but it's happening. 
> 
> Please enjoy! I'd love to hear your thoughts. :)

Having a Good Time is more difficult than he ever imagined.

Only now, does Illya begin to appreciate the soft skills that the  American contributes: a seamless and seemingly effortless agility in social situations. The ability to blend in, to belong. To appear interested.

The Russian has grimaced his way through all of the mechanic’s holiday caprices, has patiently played the beast of burden and less patiently (and less _frequently_ ), the voice of reason. To his credit, though, Illya has tried to keep an open mind. He hasn’t destroyed anything and even limits his eyerolls to when he thinks Gaby isn’t looking.

His abysmal success rate in this last endeavor is more a testament to the mechanic’s peripheral vision than any shortcoming on his part.

Illya sighs as he surveys their latest hellscape: the pumpkin patch.

Cowboy had insisted upon it. It was a necessity, a _must-do_ to achieve the “proper” Halloween experience. Apparently, Gaby’s previous forays into the holiday did not pass muster. As for Illya’s?

The less said about _that_ , the better.

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Cowboy,” he’d sneered in the hopes that the American would leave him alone.

In retrospect, he could have handled things better.

“You’ve celebrated before?”

Illya scoffed. _“Celebrated.”_

No, he had not done anything of the sort. And it had almost been the death of him.

“But they don’t have Halloween in Russia.” The gears click and whir in Solo’s mind. “You weren’t _in_ Russia. While you were living in New York then.”

The American nods to himself. “I know you did a brief stint there.”

“Not brief enough.”

Cowboy frowns, affronted at this slight against his home state. He will no doubt attempt to pry the details from Illya later... _so long_ as he understands one thing: October 31st belongs on the same conversational blacklist as classified KGB intelligence and parents.

He seems to get the message and doesn’t press the Russian any further.

The trio continues on in silence, Gaby and Solo looking right at home among the hay bales and happy couples. Illya trails sullenly behind.

He is aware that every eye snaps to him as he passes and refuses to let their stares go unchallenged. The nervous fathers and embarrassed mothers hastily drop their gaze and usher their children away.

It is not the parents that concern him. It is the children.

They gape at him, banding together in groups to whisper and point. Not out of any fear, but out of _fascination_. It makes Illya’s skin crawl.

The similarities to those _other_ children hit much too close to home.

It was seven years ago. He had been 25—the same age as the mechanic is now—living in a modest shack of a home in the New York countryside. The relative solitude was about the only thing he had liked.

He had already solidified his reputation as the KGB’s best, but no amount of training could have possibly prepared him for Halloween. He had never even _heard_ of the holiday, had been caught completely unawares when the first child appeared on his doorstep.

It had been the longest night of his life.

Illya avoids these children now like the plague, wanders mechanically through the maze of hay and pumpkins. Gaby looks over her shoulder to check on him.

He smiles. Tightly.

He’s really just baring his teeth at this point, but she rewards his efforts anyway. Gaby’s smile calms his ticking hands and tames the destructive impulses.

The pumpkins are safe.

For now.

Illya feels rather than sees the American materialize at his shoulder. He won’t give Cowboy the satisfaction of speaking first—no doubt with what the man considers a ‘witty’ remark—and heads him off with a question.

A question that eats at him during the day and keeps him up at night. A question which, for lack of a better word, has been _haunting_ him.

“Why would Gaby tell Waverly she needs my help? I am last person she should ask for this.”

Solo chuckles. “Can’t argue with you on that one. Still,” he says, infuriatingly secretive, “it doesn’t surprise me that she did.”

The American smiles smugly, blatantly biding his time. Illya tamps down his irritation. If he wants answers, he’ll have to play by Cowboy’s rules.

With a roll of his eyes and the coldest monotone he can manage, the Russian bites the bullet. “And what makes you say that?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Solo makes an exaggerated display of thinking, milking his moment of triumph for all that it’s worth. “For one thing, there’s strength in numbers. You _do_ add a certain authority to these proceedings. Gives her a degree of immunity should anyone question her judgment or things go haywire.”

“ _I_ question her judgment and things _always_ go haywire.” Illya is unfamiliar with the term, but Cowboy doesn’t need to know that. He pauses, frowns. “You mean, Gaby is using me as scapegoat?”

Solo shrugs. “Personally, I think she just has a crush. Maybe even more than that. Whatever was going on between the two of you in Rome is still there, lurking beneath the surface… just _waiting_ to rear its ugly head.”

Illya grasps on the only word his mind can process. “Ugly?”

“The two of you are nauseating,” the American clarifies. “But hell, if I don’t enjoy the show.”

When it is abundantly clear that Illya is incapable of further speech (in any language), the man laughs again and claps him on the shoulder. “Great chatting with you, Peril.”

 

* * *

 

Illya reunites with Cowboy a while later. He has thoroughly exhausted everything the pumpkin patch has to offer.

 _Almost_ everything.

“Where is Gaby?”

“Take a guess, Peril.”

His eyes follow the CIA agent’s gaze and alight on the mechanic… or what little Illya can see of her. Her long, red coat seems to swallow her whole.

He sighs when he takes in the rest of the scene. “What is that?”

“It’s called a petting zoo. I can also identify the animals for you if you need help.”

Ignoring the jibe, Illya marches over to the makeshift pen, the American close behind. Gaby grins and bounds over to them, scattering indignant chickens in her wake.

“I made a new friend,” she declares and motions for them to follow her. She kneels beside a small, brown goat. It bleats and nuzzles against her palm as Gaby’s free hand cards gently through its hair.

It is all Illya can focus on. A strange emotion grips him as he watches.

He couldn’t possibly be feeling _jealous._

_Could he?_

Illya pushes aside the thought and tunes into the conversation around him. The mechanic is chatting animatedly about…

“Horses?”

His partners pause to stare at him. It’s clear he hasn’t been paying attention. “I was just telling Solo that I wish they had horses here. I’ve always wanted one.”

Illya frowns. “Have you ever seen one in person?”

“No, but—”

“Then _why_ would you want one?” He throws up his hands at the impracticality of it all. “What would you even do with it?”

Gaby huffs, but there’s a playful undercurrent to her voice. “Plenty of things. I would ride it, for one.”

“You are too small.”

She glares at him. “And I would go around fighting _crime_ and saving the world for another. Just like the Lone Ranger.”

That stops both Solo and Illya in their tracks. Gaby raises her eyebrows at them and smirks. She spins on her heel, leaving the two men to puzzle out this mystery alone.

“I know Waverly is a fan,” the American mutters, “but Gaby? Must have caught the radio show behind the Iron Curtain somehow.”

Illya shakes his head, speaks before he can stop himself. “They play old episodes on Saturday mornings, so maybe—”

Cowboy’s smug expression brings _that_ train of thought screeching to a halt. The Russian shrugs, immediately defensive. “I lived in New York.”

He is spared further embarrassment when the goat butts its head softly against his leg. Illya reaches down to pet the animal. He catches himself and retracts his hand. He glares at Gaby’s “new friend”, proud that he manages to feel only slightly ridiculous.

Solo gives him a sly grin. Is there anything the man _doesn’t_ notice?

“Who knew our little mechanic had a thing for Cowboys? _I_ certainly didn’t.” Illya stays stubbornly silent. The American is not so easily deterred. “You know, it might not be such a bad idea for your costume.”

“I’m not wearing a costume.”

“So, you're going in your typical guise of lovesick puppy dog. Now, that’s all precious and endearing, Peril, but Gaby’s not going to go for it. Not on Halloween, at least. No. What you need is a _real_ costume.”

The mechanic’s shout draws their attention. Gaby is on the opposite side of the petting zoo, cradling a black-and-white kitten in her arms. “Solo, look who I found!”

“Just a minute,” he calls back. The American turns again to Illya, an irritating sincerity in his expression. “Let me know if you change your mind. I know a guy who can help.”

He scowls at Cowboy’s retreating figure. Illya doesn’t doubt that Solo “knows a guy” for a great many things—that he may even _be_ the guy himself.

The image of the American scrambling at the midnight hour to sew a set of chaps and locate a stetson and spurs for him should make him feel better. It doesn’t.

Illya closes his eyes and resigns himself to his fate.

Sometime before tomorrow night, he’s going to have to get himself a costume.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Lone Ranger is period accurate (1933 - 1954 for the radio show,1949 - 1957 for the TV series). Couldn't pass up an opportunity to include it in here. Also, Gallya-shipper Solo is my favorite Solo. :)


	3. The Story of Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ghosts of Halloween past pay a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it's so late, but it's done! Can't wait to hear your thoughts. :)

A table covered with newspaper, makeshift workstations replete with knives and bowls, and pumpkins as far as the eye can see. Gaby’s apartment can barely accommodate the three of them, let alone the _ocean_ of hard-skinned, orange squash dominating every corner of the room.

The agents jockey for space around the cramped table, Gaby and Cowboy bantering lightly, and Illya focusing _very hard_ on not turning the knife on himself.

This is the worst torture he’s faced yet.

“They’re just _pumpkins_ , Illya.” Her voice is gentle, teasing. “They’re more scared of you than you are of them.”

Illya doesn’t notice when the American snorts indelicately in the background. He doesn’t notice anything... only the memory of another woman from another time.

 

* * *

 

“See? It’s harmless.”

His neighbor laughed as she rotated the grinning pumpkin in her hands. Slowly, so that Illya could inspect it from all angles.

“But what _is_ it?”

“It’s a jack-o-lantern. For decoration.” The woman shrugged, smiling. “We thought it might liven up your porch a bit.”

 _"We"_ meaning her husband and the two, small children she had brought with her. At her prompting (and no small amount of coaxing), her sons shyly handed over a small pumpkin each.

Illya had accepted the third and largest jack-o-lantern from their mother with an embarrassed sort of nod.

“Thank you.”

He had moved in nearly four months ago, and, though he often kept to himself, his neighbors had always been welcoming to him.

They were the only ones.

Under different circumstances, Illya might even have considered them friends… or the closest approximation he could find here.

But as it stood, he felt compelled to keep his distance.

With the perplexing cries of “Happy Halloween”, the smiling family had returned home. Illya didn’t return the sentiment… could not make heads or tails of its meaning.

He set the smaller jack-o-lanterns down on his porch steps. The third one he examined more closely. A candle was visible behind the pumpkin’s gap-toothed grin. Apparently, the effect wouldn’t be complete without fire.

Illya sighed— _Americans—_ and made a note to himself to light them all later. It was the least he could do.

 

* * *

 

Illya grits his teeth and plunges his hand back into the pumpkin. His nails scrape the hard shell, catching in the slimy, stringy tangle of pulp and seeds.

The texture is revolting.

Solo grins at his discomfort. “Squeamish, Peril? I figure you’d be _used_ to this type of wet work by now.”

“It doesn’t mean I enjoy it.” His stare is hard, challenging, heavy with the horrors of a “successful” KGB career. “Do you?”

That shuts the American up. He drops his gaze, thoroughly chastened. Illya wipes his hands clean and picks up the knife: a surgeon prepping his first incision. A trained killer choosing the most efficient course of action.

The mood shifts palpably after that.

Conversation is terse, forced, and quickly stops altogether. The trio work on their jack-o-lanterns in silence, until—

“ _No._ That one is no good.”

Gaby appraises him coolly, though her tone is anything but. “It’s _supposed_ to look like that.”

“Like child with very little skill carved it?”

Illya is spoiling for a fight and he knows it. But he’s had enough of playing nice for one day. And from the angry glare he receives from the mechanic, so is Gaby.

“Well, we can’t _all_ be perfect.”

“I don’t expect ‘perfect’ from you,” he snaps. “Decent, maybe. Or adequate. _That_ is an abomination.”

Before Illya can so much as blink, she deals a lethal blow to his jack-o-lantern. Between the eyes of its painstakingly realistic face is Gaby’s knife, thrust all the way to its hilt.

She shrugs at his wild-eyed stare. “I consider that an improvement, don’t you?”

Cowboy doesn’t look up from the intricate scene he’s carving, but the Russian knows he’s hanging onto every word… braced to intervene if necessary.

It won’t be.

Illya rolls his shoulders back and slips the blade out of the pumpkin. He returns it hilt-first to the mechanic and quietly resumes his work.

After a moment’s hesitation, so does she.

Illya notes, too, the subtle change in Cowboy’s posture, the loosening of his grip on the knife handle. The room seems to breathe a collective sigh of relief.

The sound of a bell startles them.

“The oven.”

Solo excuses himself to check on the pumpkin pie (a test run before he bakes them _en masse_ for tomorrow). Gaby and Illya are left alone, though the setting is far from private.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, slowly raising his eyes to meet hers. The mechanic nods and extends her hand to him.

“Truce?”

 

* * *

 

After the last jack-o-lantern has been carved and the sun has dipped low over the horizon, Illya hopes to make a quick getaway.

His partners, of course, have other plans.

Every night for the past week, they have forced him to watch a monster film. An _American_ monster film.

It was either that or tell ghost stories. And _no one_ was eager for a repeat of his last performance.

Cowboy had shared an old “campfire story”, Gaby a fairytale from her childhood, and Illya… a grisly, horrifying account of a crazed killer the KGB has been trying to locate.

They hadn’t asked him to share any more stories after that.

And so, the Russian must suffer through the gaudiest, most sensational cinematic offerings that the West has to offer. _Battleship Potemkin_ , this is not.

Every night...

_“Trick or treat?”_

Solo breezes into the room with a bowl of popcorn to share. He grins, catches the tootsie roll the mechanic tosses to him.

And every night...

_“Trick or treat?”_

The memories attack him with a _vengeance._

 

* * *

 

Illya had grabbed his gun when the doorbell rang. He rarely had visitors and _never_ after dark. The door inches open. He is met with a strange sight and stranger greeting.

“Trick or treat!”

Three children—inexplicably dressed in white sheets with holes cut out for the eyes—shove open pillowcases at him.

They look at him expectantly.

He looks back.

They repeat themselves slowly. When that fails to generate the desired response, they adopt a more direct approach.

“Don’t you have something for us?”

He scans the faceless trio, the pillowcases weighted down with _something_. He blinks in confusion. _Are they trying to rob him?_

“Candy,” the tallest one specifies. “Do you have _candy?_ ”

He frowns. “No. I do not have any. Go back home to your parents.”

Illya shuts the door, dismissing the occurrence as an anomaly. He should have known that they weren’t going to go quietly.

Over the course of the night, the trio seems to recruit a small, but dedicated army of children, teenagers, and younger siblings. They then incited a riot.

Wave after wave of homemade costumes and insistent pillowcases besiege his front door: each accompanied by the rally cry of “trick or treat!”

They are relentless.

Illya hasn’t so much as _seen_ any children around this area, save for his two, tiny neighbors. Where could they all have come from?

He begins to ignore the doorbell, yelling for the delinquents to leave. They simply press in closer…  sharks circling at the scent of blood.

They peer in through the windows, pound on the door and walls, ring the bell incessantly—only to mysteriously disappear when he goes to check.

Their laughter echoes in his ears and, as the night wears on, they only grow bolder. Eggs (and the occasional rock) splatter against the side of his house while parroted taunts about “commies” begin to fill the air.

Illya is stuck between a rock and a hard place.

He balks at the notion of calling the police, but he can’t exactly take matters into his own hands either. They are _children_ after all.

What would Illya even say to his superiors... that he caused an international incident over a few eggs and spoiled brats?

No, he would just have to hunker down and endure this torment. The children would have to go home eventually.

By the time the morning rolls around, Illya has wrecked nearly all of the furniture in his home. There are window panes broken, though he is almost _positive_ that hadn’t been his doing.

He squares his shoulders and works up the courage to step outside. His throat chokes with anger.

His house and the towering maple in front of it have been mummified with toilet paper. Egg shells, candy wrappers, and the odd cigarette butt litter his yard, and the stench from the congealed yolk streaking the walls is horrendous.

At his feet are three broken candles and the decimated shards of the jack-o-lanterns.

 

* * *

 

Illya sulkingly takes his seat as Gaby switches off the lights. He has been relegated to the armchair since the very first night of their marathon.

To his immense annoyance, his partners maintain a running commentary no matter what they are watching. They laugh and joke and throw popcorn at each other and, thus far, have blatantly ignored every reprimand to _pay attention_.

Not that Illya has any _actual_ interest in these films.

It wasn’t his grumpy demeanor, though, that had broken the camel’s back and left him stranded in his upholstered island.

It had been something much, _much_ worse.

As it turns out, the movies bring out a quietly affectionate side to the mechanic. Whoever is closest to her is liable to become an ottoman, a pillow, a teddy bear… the list goes on and on in maddening detail.

Though he will vehemently deny being _absorbed_ in _The Wolf Man’_ s paper-thin plot, Illya had certainly relaxed his guard.

The sudden and unexpected sensation of Gaby’s head on his shoulder had jolted him into fight-or-flight.

He had flinched at the contact, flailed wildly, and nearly sent the two of them crashing to the floor. He scrambled to his feet, just barely managing to catch the mechanic. Solo, meanwhile, had doubled over on the floor in laughter.

Needless to say, Gaby hadn’t tried _that_ again.

Illya had racked his fevered brains for something, _anything_ he could say to invite her attentions again. He came up empty and sat miserably and stiffly beside her for the rest of the film.

Since then, the Russian has been doomed to spend his evenings in the “time out chair” (Cowboy’s derisive term for it) while the American is free to throw a careless arm around her shoulders.

It doesn’t anger him like he’d thought it would.

There is an unspoken understanding between them that Gaby and Cowboy’s friendship is markedly different than… whatever he has with the mechanic.

It may not anger him to see Gaby prop her legs up on Solo’s lap, but he can’t say it doesn’t bother him.

He shushes his partners as the film begins. Popcorn and childish insults are hurled at him in response. He sighs.

After bumbling his way through _The Wolf Man_ , dozing during _The Mummy_ , and rolling his eyes so frequently and so _violently_ during _Creature from the Black Lagoon_ that he feared they might just stick there, Illya will now be subjected to _The Bride of Frankenstein_.

The Bride of Frankenstein’s _Monster_ , he corrects silently. Why couldn’t the Americans get it right?

Illya checks his watch. _Good_. He still has time.

He might have to (as Waverly says) burn the midnight oil and pull a few strings, but—he decides, as he looks over at Gaby—it’s going to be worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illya is a bit of a drama queen, hahaha, but the image was just too good to pass up: a younger, baby-faced KGB agent overwhelmed by actual HORDES of children demanding the candy he doesn't have. Hey, I described it as tragicomic for a reason. :)
> 
> Off to write the last two chapters... wish me luck!


	4. One Last Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya and Gaby get their fortunes told, while Solo makes a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go! Thank you all so much for reading and for the lovely comments. :)
> 
> If you have a couple moments to spare, I would highly recommend you checking out rainbowjaeger's latest fic, Oslo. I MAY be a bit biased on this one, but it's such a sweet and all-around fantastic one-off story. <3 Please give it a read and share the love! And if you haven't read the rest of her Gallyafest series (or one of my personal favorites, In Time), I recommend you get on that too. :)
> 
> Here's the link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12566984

Ever the gracious host, Waverly gives the trio full access to the mansion’s facilities. The Russian still can’t wrap his head around it. Granted, the man had multiple residences, but why would he want _anyone_ to know where he lived?

Does that mean the Englishman trusts them? Illya shakes his head: just one more thing that separates the KGB from UNCLE.

Cowboy has already taken full advantage of the spacious kitchen and is brimming with a crazed sort of enthusiasm. Illya and Gaby prep the pies, while Solo bounces between caramel apples and popcorn balls and much more extravagant fare—the likes of which Illya has never seen.

He is baffled by one offering in particular, moreso by Cowboy’s cryptic statement that it is for the three of them only. The American grabs plates and sets them down beside… _is that a fruitcake?_

“Barmbrack,” he had called it.

Illya hopes it tastes better than it sounds.

He watches Cowboy opening drawers and cabinets with increasing consternation. “Gaby,” the man sighs, “ _dearest_ , where are they?”

“I hid them.”

“Obviously. But I’m going to need one.”

Illya glances back and forth between his partners. He’s completely in the dark. The mechanic shrugs a half-hearted apology.

“I can’t help you, Solo. It’s tradition.”

“ _German_ tradition.” The American offers her his best smile. “You have my word that I will return it to you the _second_ I’m finished with it.”

Gaby hesitates, conflicted, but finally nods. “All right, but you can’t look. You too, Illya.”

The Russian looks to Solo for any sort of guidance. The man merely shakes his head and turns his back to the mechanic and the rest of the kitchen. When Gaby scolds him, so does Illya.

She returns a moment later. Illya frowns when he sees what she’s carrying. “You hid all the _knives_?”

“Like I said, it’s tradition.”

“It’s for the safety of the dearly departed,” Cowboy explains. “Wouldn’t want them getting hurt when they come to visit later on.”

Gaby’s voice is hushed, serious.“It’s _also_ for the safety of the living.”

Illya scoffs. This was nonsense. But the mechanic’s scathing glare inspires him to keep his opinions to himself.

He clears his throat, gestures to the fruitcake before them. “This is another tradition?”

“ _Irish_ tradition,” Gaby huffs.

Solo brushes off her comment and nods at the Russian. “It’s an old family recipe. My grandmother—bless her soul—could barely boil water, so I, uh, made a few adjustments.” He grins. “It should be edible now.”

The American begins to slice up the fruitcake. “Now, inside the barmbrack, you’re going to find a handful of items. Each one will correspond to the year ahead.”

“You’re serving us fortune-telling cake.”

“It’s no laughing matter, Peril. I’ll attest to its predictive powers any day of the week.” Satisfied that Illya has no further comment, he continues on. “The coin, or sixpence, means good fortune and wealth and the rag means the opposite. With me so far?”

Off their nods, Solo finishes out his list. “If you get the pea, you won’t be getting married (at least during the coming year). The stick and your marriage will be a troubled one. And the ring, as you might have guessed, means—”

“Wedding bells.”

“In your next trip around the sun. Precisely, Gaby.”

Cowboy finishes plating the barmbrack, hands them their slices with unusual reverence. “Are you ready to face your future?”

As promised, the American returns the knife to Gaby as well. She disappears to find its new hiding spot as Illya glimpses a glint of metal in his fruitcake. He pulls it out warily. It’s a ring. A delicate, gold ring that would fit perfectly on Gaby’s—

His fingers curl into a fist, obscuring the simple band from the mechanic’s view. She raises an eyebrow at him when she returns, but mercifully, turns her attention elsewhere.

“Okay, Solo. What did you get?”

The CIA agent smiles and shows her the coin. “Untold wealth and prosperity,” he says, before revealing the pea as well, “and another glorious four seasons of bachelorhood.”

He winks. “The same can’t be said for Peril, though. Looks like he’s going to be off the market. And _apparently_ , Gaby,” he adds, smugly, “so are you.”

Illya’s eyes snap to the larger, heavier gold band that the mechanic now fiddles with. “Imagine that,” Solo drawls. “You ending up with a man’s ring and our Russian friend here with a woman’s.”

Cowboy shrugs, does _exactly_ what Illya fears he would. “Maybe the two of you should exchange them. _Maybe_ with a couple of ‘I do’s’ thrown in for good measure.”

The wedding band—for that truly is what he’s holding—digs painfully into his palm. Illya trains his gaze on the untouched plate in front of him, although he can tell that Gaby is still turning the ring in her hands.

“These are real,” she says slowly. “You put _real_ rings in here?”

“I didn’t find them in a box of crackerjacks, if that’s what you’re asking.” He holds up a hand to interrupt their protests. “Before you start accusing me, I didn’t plan any of this. It is simply a divine act of providence.”

Illya doesn’t believe him for a second. And neither, it appears, does Gaby. She reaches to investigate the dish further. “Just how many rings are in this cake, Solo?”

He whisks the barmbrack away. “That’s not important.”

 

* * *

 

Illya paces anxiously in front of the mansion. He had been banished earlier and his instructions now are clear: don’t come back until _at least_ half an hour after the party starts.

Cowboy had called for his exile. Decorating is the man’s self-appointed domain and he had stubbornly refused all of Illya’s “suggestions” and demands to take over. The Russian’s role—according to the CIA agent—could easily be fulfilled by a ladder.

Gaby _did_ , however, offer to glare at Solo on his behalf.

It was a small consolation, but it did give Illya the extra time he needed. He had had to cash in a couple of favors, and—though the requests themselves were (understandably) absurd—his contacts were too intimidated to ask questions.

Illya decides that he’s waited long enough and knocks on the front door. A low whistle greets him. “Hi-yo, _Silver_ ,” the American smirks. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Peril.”

He bristles immediately. “What’re you talking about? I came dressed as _you_ , Cowboy.”

“You really didn’t. _A_ cowboy, maybe, but you’re not just any ol’ buckaroo.  You, comrade, are the Lone Ranger.”

Solo peeks around the Russian, clearly checking for something. “No horse?”

“I didn’t bring horse to the party, no.”

“But you admit you _have_ a horse.”

It’s not a question. A muscle works in Illya’s jaw. Even partially obscured by a mask, the Russian can’t hide anything from the man.

“No. You have _horses_. You’re taking Gaby riding later, aren’t you?”

Illya scowls. “At least I _have_ a costume.”

If the deflection is as transparent as it feels, then Solo doesn’t… no, he definitely does. The American’s self-satisfied expression is insufferable.

Cowboy grins. He is outfitted in his black tactical garb, and, curiously, has his roll of lock-picking tools as well. He opens the door wider, revealing a tiny kitten.

A _familiar_ looking kitten.

“Cat burglar,” Solo declares. He scoops the cat into his arms. “Peril, meet Macavity. He’s the—”

“ _Napoleon_ of crime. I _know_.” Illya rolls his eyes. The man’s arrogance truly knows no bounds. Illya glances closer at its blue eyes and black-and-white fur. “He looks nothing like Eliot’s description: ginger, domed head, sunken eyes, dusty coat.”

“I’m impressed. Gaby wasn’t nearly as informed as you.” The American shakes his head in disappointment. “Turns out they _didn’t_ have _Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats_ behind the Iron Curtain.”

Again, the CIA agent mutters darkly about his Christmas list. A shiver of nerves streaks down Illya’s spine. He takes a deep breath. December was still a ways off.

Illya clears his throat. “Can I come in now?”

Cowboy snaps out of his musings and proceeds to bow him inside… and transports him to another world in the process.

Even Illya will admit to being impressed. Solo’s decor is certainly of a higher production value—and, knowing the American—a higher _budget_ than the many monster films they’ve been watching.

But no matter how realistic or expensive the props and scenery around him may be, Illya only has eyes for the mechanic.

Only, on this night, she _isn’t_ his chop shop girl. She is the ballerina, an elusive dream resurrected from another life.

Illya wonders briefly where she got her attire from—it couldn’t be from her time in Berlin. He wonders, too, whether Solo had “known a guy” for that as well.

He gazes in awe at her as she floats around the room. She’s carrying herself differently, he notices. The grace that has always underscored her movements now crescendos into an ethereal symphony.

“She looks like she stepped straight out of a music box.”

Illya hums in response.

He disagrees. Gaby is anything _but_. She is not hidden away like a precious secret, made to dance at anyone’s beck and call. She dances only for herself and the stirrings in her heart.

She is not trapped, either, in an endless, static loop, going through the motions and constrained by any one force. No, Gaby is her own woman.

She is unpredictable and unchoreographed.

Imperfect, but free.

The heel of Cowboy’s hand strikes him hard between the shoulder blades. All the air is knocked from his lungs. “Don’t forget to breathe, Peril.”

For once, Illya doesn’t fight him.

Gaby’s eyes find his from across the room. Waverly intercepts her before she can make her way over. He whispers something to her and she nods, slips quietly out of the room.

“Come on, Peril. Let’s make the rounds.”

Illya huffs, motions to the silky bundle of fur in the American’s hands. “Are you going to carry that around with you all night?”

“I don’t see a reason _not_ to.” Cowboy leans in close and mutters. “Take a look around. Anything stand out to you?”

He scans the room. Only then, does Illya realize the sheer volume of female agents dressed as cats. He rolls his eyes, exasperated.

“Like I said, Peril, _cat burglar_. And I plan on getting my pick of the litter.”

Illya’s retort dies in his throat. Blood-curdling shrieks sear the air. The room goes deathly silent as the crowd begins to part...

He is running before he even realizes it. He _knows_ that voice. Illya senses Solo just over his shoulder.

His heart skips a beat, then stops altogether.

The ballerina staggers towards him, small hands pressed to the gaping wounds across her torso. Blood seeps into the tulle, blooms across her leotard.

Impossible thoughts of ghosts with knives screech through his brain. Solo has stopped a few paces back. _What is he waiting for?_

Her name tears out of him—a roar, a plea, a whimper—and her eyelids flutter. There’s a startling, fleeting clarity in her eyes.

“Illya,” she murmurs, “it’s okay.”

She barely sways an inch before he catches her… and feels her go limp in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended it on a cliffhanger, I know, but the good news is, you'll get the ending tomorrow. :) 
> 
> I am not above putting Illya in a Lone Ranger costume and *definitely* not above Solo finding his feline mini-me and naming it in honor of himself. And don't worry, friends, I'm sure Gaby is going to be okay. Or maybe not...
> 
> Stay tuned!


	5. That Would Be Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waverly cuts loose and Illya realizes that Halloween may not be so terrible after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just over an hour left here until Halloween officially ends, but it's done! Thank you all so much for taking the time to read this and share your thoughts. This fic is definitely a rush job compared to my other ones, so thank you for your patience and understanding with that as well.
> 
> I have tied my story into rainbowjaeger's Oslo. Her fic was a spiritual successor to mine, so now it can be in a shared universe. Also, the lovely Azulet (who is a master of Gen and friendship fics) has also written a partially Halloween-themed story that is well worth the read. Great characterizations and bite-sized moments that capture Gaby's relationships with the rest of Team UNCLE. 
> 
> Please share the love: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12580028
> 
> Thank you all again! :)
> 
> UPDATE: rainbowjaeger has gifted me a beautiful drawing of Halloween/Murder Mystery/Ballerina Gaby. [My smol queen.](https://imgur.com/a/5XwPd)

_This is wrong_ , he chants to himself. _This is wrong, this is wrong, this is…_

Wrong.

Illya frowns. There is nothing _right_ about this at all. Gaby’s body is warm, but the blood is not. It smears his hands, but does not feel tacky. The coppery scent, too, is masked by something sickeningly sweet, almost like—

It isn’t blood at all.

Illya’s hands shake as he lays the mechanic on the floor. A small crowd gathers around him. He feels for Gaby’s pulse: clear, strong, and quickening under his touch.

 _It’s okay_ , she reassured him. The image of those wide, startled eyes flashes in his mind. _Has this all been a joke?_

Illya throws his gaze wildly around the room. The other UNCLE agents are watching him with a giddy sort of curiosity. Solo has regained his composure as well.

Scuffed shoes and a trench coat approach him. A voice—harsh and unmistakably American—growls at him from beneath a grimy fedora.

“Hey! Paws off, pal.”

The man grips his upper arm and hoists him roughly to his feet. Illya is seconds away from breaking the American’s fingers (and probably more) when he realizes that it isn’t an American at all.

It’s Waverly.

“Logan King, P.I.,” he says, flashing a badge to the room. “Here on out, this is _my_ crime scene, you understand?” He scowls. “Innocent ‘til proven guilty don’t apply here. Just ‘cause you saw this dame get bumped off, it doesn’t mean you’re on the square. Matter of _fact_ , I say it makes you all  suspects.”

The other agents start to whisper excitedly among themselves—many struggling to keep a straight face. Illya, however, has had enough.

Without breaking eye contact with Waverly, he turns to leave.

There’s a flicker of recognition: a sympathy that betrays the man’s hard-boiled detective act. Waverly gives him the barest nod before shooting a pointed look at Solo.

“You the croaker? Appreciate you coming in on such short notice. Why don’t you give our Jane here the up-and-down, then put us all wise? We’ll move her, of course, when you’re finished. No need to keep her—or you—here longer than necessary.”

Illya knows exactly what Waverly is doing, can’t find it within himself to be moved by it. Normally, the man’s concern for him would be baffling, even a bit uncomfortable. Now, it is infuriating… a shameful reminder of his weakness.

He doesn’t stick around for Cowboy’s response.

 

* * *

 

A frantic shout and the sound of clumsy, rapid footsteps. Gaby catches up to him just as he reaches his car.

Illya breathes, counts to ten silently.

“Illya,” she repeats. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

His fingers could snap the door handle clean off. Her slender hands grasp onto him, trying to stop him from getting inside. Illya gently, but firmly removes them.

“Gaby, I have seen more death and more horrors than I will ever have you know. Most by my own hands.” He gestures to her ruined costume. “I did not need to see this.”

Her chin juts up at him, chest heaving from both emotion and exertion. She steps closer to him. “So you were the _only_ one in that room who’s ever suffered then. No one else tonight could _possibly_ know what it feels like to see or do or have _done_ to them what they can never forget.”

“That is not what I’m saying.”

“It _is_. You want to know why? Because out of all the agents UNCLE has, _you_ , Illya, were the only one to have an issue with it. Everyone else saw it for what it was: a game.”

“You are not a game to me.”

 

* * *

 

Gaby sits, numb and miserable, in a secluded corner of the party. Illya is long gone by now. He hadn’t listened to any of her pleas to stay and talk things out. Hadn’t listened to her apologies.

Hadn’t even looked back.

Solo appears beside her with another glass of wine. It is the last one, she knows, before he cuts her off. Gaby shakes her head, declines.

He raises his eyebrows with a shrug and sets the glass down. He takes the seat opposite her. “He’ll be fine, Gaby.”

He doesn’t sound too sure. The CIA agent sighs. “I confess it gave me quite the shock too when—”

“Solo, don’t. Please?”

He nods and lets the matter rest. A warm, squirming bundle of fur is placed in her lap. “Thought you could use the company,” he explains. “Let me know if you need anything.”

She listens as his footsteps fade beneath the buzz of conversation around her. Macavity kneads against her thighs and curls into a ball. Gaby wishes she could do the same.

Fatigue and heartache and the rolling warmth of the alcohol has her slowly closing her eyes.

 

* * *

 

Heavy fabric covers her. The action is careless, jolting, accompanied by a low baritone. “Come on, Gaby. Time to go.”

She blinks up at Solo in confusion. It is not a blanket on top of her… but her red coat. “But the party’s still going on.”

“And I admire your sense of duty, but you’re not enjoying any of it. Which _means_ that neither am I.” A pair of boots thud heavily to the floor. “Best I could do on short notice. They won’t be a perfect fit, but they’re better than what you’ve got on now.”

Her pointe shoes are unsalvageable from her haphazard sprinting through grass and gravel earlier. Before she can do it herself, Solo is slipping the coat over her shoulders and helping her into the boots.

His movements are brisk, calming in their efficiency. _Much like Illya’s would be_ , she thinks as a fresh pang of guilt gnaws at her.

Macavity is pressed into her hands and she is skillfully maneuvered through the crowds and maze of rooms. “I’ve already cleared it with Waverly,” Solo says. “He’s going to give me the case file for the Oslo mission later. I’ll fill you in on all the details.”

The American’s breath is warm against her ear. “Truth be told, I don’t think you’ll be missing out on too much here. Waverly’s already led everyone in the Monster Mash _twice_. They can’t seem to get enough of him.”

She doesn’t wonder at that. The man so rarely cut loose… and who knew that their boss was such a natural performer? Gaby frowns at the other half of Solo’s message.

“You’re not going with me?”

“To witness you two lovebirds reconcile?” His grin fades at her somber expression. “I’ll check in on the both of you later. Smooth things over if I have to. But, knowing Peril, you’re going to be just fine.”

He squeezes her shoulder affectionately and waves as she drives off.

 

* * *

 

The knock on his door shatters the silence and what little self-control he has left. Illya navigates the wreck of his apartment and throws open the door.

Gaby stands before him in her long coat... and, it seems, someone else’s boots. Her hair is down and her face is slightly flushed. She looks, for all intents and purposes, like a battleworn Red Riding Hood.

And he, the Big Bad Wolf, must decide whether to let her in.

A long moment passes before he steps aside. Gaby, however, doesn’t move towards the open doorway. She moves towards _him._

The mechanic lays her head against his chest and her arms wrap vise-like around him. A ragged breath escapes her. Hesitantly, he returns the gesture: broad hands encircling her shoulders, stroking her hair until she calms down.

Until _he_ calms down too.

Gaby’s presence is soothing, her touch, his saving grace. The fear and anger from before begin to melt away. Illya closes his eyes—no longer seeing red—and feels his breath rise and fall in synchrony with hers.

Illya doesn’t know how long they remain like that.

Eventually, Gaby takes a step back and lifts her gaze to his. Her eyes are bright with sincerity and Illya believes he could drown in the untold depths within them.

“I’m sorry.”

He nods. He had forgiven her long before she arrived at his door.

Illya offers her a small smile. “Truce?”

 

* * *

 

They work side-by-side to clean up his apartment, the damage not quite as extensive as he feared. The furniture, at least, is largely still intact.

Gaby grabs her pack from his closet and excuses herself to freshen up. It was a directive from Waverly that Illya and his partners each keep a bag with spare clothes and other essentials in one another’s apartments.

 _You never know when you’ll need to make a quick escape,_ he had cautioned them.

Before joining UNCLE, Illya would have scoffed at such a suggestion. It was a liability, a bread crumb trail should they ever be compromised… but he sees things differently now.

And, though he’ll never admit it (unless Gaby asks), there is something strangely reassuring about having something of the mechanic’s and Cowboy’s in his home and something of his own in theirs.

Illya glances down at his watch. It’s after 11 pm. If he times it right, there _should_ be another monster film starting soon. He automatically reaches to grab a bowl and bag of popcorn.

He starts to think better of it—Gaby probably wants to go back to her own place soon and he shouldn’t try to keep her here—but then the mechanic walks in and makes up his mind for him.

Fresh-faced, bare feet, and blue, striped pajamas. She smiles at him as she ties her hair into a ponytail.

Apparently, Gaby has no intention of leaving tonight.

He can work with that.

The mechanic tilts her head in curiosity as he begins to make popcorn. He shrugs, speaks those three dreaded words. “Trick or treat?”

Gaby grins, delighted, and considers his proposition. She rises on her tiptoes and rests her hand on his shoulder. She presses a soft kiss to the scar by his eye.

“Treat,” she decides.

* * *

 

Solo slips in after the first twenty minutes of _Frankenstein_ wearing a pair of cat ears he definitely didn't have on before. Illya rolls his eyes, but for once, he is simply grateful the man hadn’t knocked.

He doesn’t want to wake Gaby.

Illya holds a finger to his lips as the American rounds the couch. Cowboy sees Gaby curled up against him and nods. He sinks into the armchair beside them, lamenting.

“I don’t think I’ve _ever_ left a party before midnight. I might still catch the end of it if I hurry.” He grins at Illya. “They’re even talking about making this an annual tradition.”

He laughs at Illya’s scowl, quickly lowers his voice when Gaby stirs. “But I didn’t come here _just_ to break that bit of news. I actually have something for you.”

Cowboy places Macavity on top of the mechanic. To Illya’s immense relief, he hands him a folder instead. “Briefing for our next mission.”

“Oslo.”

“Akershus Festning, to be more precise. It’s a known haunt of the Vinciguerra's organization and,” he pauses dramatically, “for haunt _ings_ as well.”

Solo flips through the file and removes a three-page document. “It’s all laid out here along with some other legends. Thought it might be good for you to know exactly what we’ll be dealing with.”

“There are no such things as ghosts, Cowboy.”

“Don’t let Gaby catch you saying that.”

Illya huffs. “ _You_ are bad influence. You encourage her in all this nonsense. I will not let the mission be compromised because the two of you are _scared_ of a few… tall tales.”

Cowboy shrugs. “We leave in 24. Just in time for All _Souls’_ Day.”

He rolls his eyes. “Enjoy the rest of your party, Cowboy.”

The American nods and makes to leave, but lingers in the doorway. “ _Actually,_ I was thinking I might just stay here tonight. If it's all the same to you.”

Illya hums, waves him back into the room. “You can stay. But if you talk during rest of the film, I am not responsible for what happens.”

“Understood.”

Solo settles back into the armchair and they lapse into a companionable silence. Out of the corner of his eye, Illya could swear the American flashes a thumbs-up at Gaby. He dismisses it as a trick of his imagination.

The mechanic nestles closer against him, a sweet and sleepy smile on her face. _What did I ever do to deserve this?_ He wonders, for the second time that month.

Illya’s mind starts to wander from the film. He thinks of the _barmbrack_ and the two rings it had yielded. If Frankenstein’s _Monster_ could get married… why couldn’t he?

_Maybe Halloween isn’t so bad after all._

Illya wouldn’t _hate_ celebrating with Gaby (or even Cowboy) again: to hear their stories and learn about their traditions, _despite_ the fact he doesn’t believe in them.

But he’s going to hide all the knives from now on, just in case.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we get to the real reason and inspiration behind this fic. The Monster Mash was released in 1962... I had the mental image of Waverly performing it and being a smashing success, so there you go. :) Also, Waverly as a cliched crime noir detective makes me laugh.
> 
> Also, well done to those who guessed murder mystery! As anyone who has read my other works might have predicted, I love happy endings and always try to right the wrongs.
> 
> Thanks a million for all your support and kindness. :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Oslo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12566984) by [rainbowjaeger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowjaeger/pseuds/rainbowjaeger)
  * [Three Times Gaby Was Scary, And One Time She Wasn't](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12580028) by [Azulet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azulet/pseuds/Azulet)




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